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Tuesday, 27 September 2011

For the past two nights, I’ve taken part in a
‘writing collaborative’. And, without wanting to toot my own horn too much
here, they’ve been pretty big deals. I mean, Jack Black invited me to the first
one. In I walked to the pristine white, hangar-like lecture theatre, all
pigeon-chested and Smythson-notebook-cocky, ready to blind the likes of Steven
Spielberg, Richard Branson, Stephen Fry and Kristen Wiig with my world-changing
ideas for – as Jack had so carefully briefed me – ‘A Great New Thing’.

In fact, so great had I considered my Great New Thing ideas – for
businesses, for movies, for books – to be, that I’d barely even worn a slick of
mascara to the get-together, for fear of my genius concepts being overshadowed
by my outfit (jeans and Radiohead t-shirt) or styling (birds-nest hair and
wonky glasses). It was only upon finding my Great New Thing game-changers on
the receiving end of hundreds of barely stifled titters and pitying eye-rolls,
however, that I began to realise my pecking-order in this enormous room of
writers: I was barely fit to shine their similes.

So why, then, had I been asked to
attend in the first place? I mean, yeah, I make an amazing brew, but was that really it? Perhaps they just needed an
easy target to mock, or had some kind of work-experience quota to fill.
Whatever the case, my personal invitation was beginning to bother me – just why
the hell would Jack Black invite me to something like that? Well, I’ll tell you
why Jack Black would invite me to something like that: because I’m on an
inordinate amount of morphine.

And also because, the moment my
eyes are closed, I appear to be existing in a freakish parallel universe in
which all that’s important is leaving behind a serious, high-profile – and
seriously high-profile – mark on the world. I mean, sheesh – the other
afternoon I interrupted Pete’s nap by nattering away about the necessity for an
immediate weapons amnesty, ferfuckssake.

Back to my morphine-induced
alternative reality, however, and among its most freakish features is its
ability to pick up where it left off – or, at least, vaguely where it left off – several hours between sleeps. Hence
last night I found myself at another ‘writing collaborative’, albeit on a much smaller
scale, in a library’s basement room with only Jack Black, Sean Lock and that
woman who did the judging on Show Me The
Funny – who, for the purposes of proper identification, we shall call Kate
Copstick.

Kate Copstick’s idea for a Great
New Thing was to produce a book called How
To Live (I do hope my dreamtime colleagues have better ideas in real life) –
a book which wouldn’t just write
about all the many ways and means in which one might, as she put it, ‘live
well’, but would display them, almost
like a magical scrapbook: hence, pleasing textures would be there to feel, gorgeous
pictures would be there to see, beautiful noises would be there to hear, and wonderful
feelings would be there to, well, feel.

‘No. It’s the experience of life,’ was her patronising answer. (I’m very sorry
about this fictitious exchange, by the way, Kate Copstick. Why it was you in my
dream and not, I don’t know, Meryl Streep or Zac Efron or Wile E Coyote, I have
absolutely no idea. I actually happen to think that you’re a rather lovely
human being and that, were we to meet in a Jack-Black-arranged ‘writing
collaborative’ in the basement of a central London library, we might perhaps
get on rather well.)

‘Precisely,’ I’d said, ignoring
Jack’s sideways death-stares by continuing to argue back. ‘So nobody needs a
book telling them how to live it.’

‘Well I think we’ve already
established that your ideas are worth shit,’
said Kate, having a little giggle with Sean Lock about my pitiful performance at
last night’s meeting to establish the nature of the Great New Thing.

And then, calm as anything, I
allowed my real and virtual worlds to collide. ‘Actually, Kate Copstick,’ I
said, hands on hips, ‘I think you’ll find that, on this particular subject, I
am the WORLD FUCKING AUTHORITY.’

Kate Copstick looked like she
wasn’t normally argued with in such a manner.

‘Because as it happens,’ I
continued, ‘in the last few days, I have discovered that, in fact, if ANYONE
knows how to live, it’s ME. For I have, at the age of 32, with the revelation
of widespread secondary cancer in my bones, discovered that my days of living
the glorious life which you are so keen to replicate in book form are, I’m
afraid, rather limited.’

Well that sure took the wind out
of Kate Copstick’s sails. Sean Lock’s, too: in fact, to such a point that he
instantly disappeared. Kate looked to Jack, Jack looked to me, I looked to
Kate. And, with a sudden ‘aah’ of realisation, Kate looked right back at me.

‘Ah, okay, I get it,’ she said. ‘I
get it!’

Jack nodded.

‘The Great New Thing…’ Kate said
to Jack. ‘She’ll be doing it.’

Now, there are a lot of things
that these dreams could mean. They might mean that, after three years and three
months of writing this blog, I have finally – finally – marched over the do-not-cross line of sanity. They might
mean that morphine is a more powerful drug than even this long-time user gave
it credit for. They might mean that, proud as I am of my achievements to date,
they’re a mere drop in the ocean; they might mean that, however old I get, I’ll
never escape feeling like a teenage dork; or they might mean that I’ve
developed an unexpected crush on Jack Black. I’m more inclined to conclude,
however, that my dreams point to two things: firstly, that – as is perhaps
perfectly natural upon being told you have a disease that cannot be cured – I
am concerned about the legacy of work I’ll leave behind. But secondly – and
more importantly – that no amount of subliminal messages in freaky morphine
dreams can tell me How To Live, thank
you very much.

But that’s for another time. And so,
as is customary, let’s address the first thing first: my legacy. Having written
so long about the alternative reality (which, to be perfectly honest, is far
more interesting than what’s going on in my pyjamas right now) I ought to spend
some time here giving you the real-world picture: the one that, I am afraid, is
even more difficult to read than a drug-induced hallucinatory argument with
Kate Copstick. My last post revealed to you that for some time I’ve been in a
fair bit of pain; pain which was – only naturally – attributed to my back-break
of 16 months ago but which has, in fact, revealed itself to be a secondary
cancer spread to my bones: one which cannot be cured, but can, as we are now
beginning to attempt, to be managed for some time yet.

With my first diagnosis, then,
there was an internal dialogue that went: ‘Oh shit I’m going to die’ / ‘Oh get
over yourself of course you’re not going to die’. This time, however, was more
‘Oh shit I’m going to die’ / ‘Oh SHIT
I really AM going to die’. And so, if
you’ll forgive my bluntness, there’s an acceptance that comes with it now; that
has to come with it; that I want to come with it. (Hence let’s cull
the ‘you’ll beat this thing just like you did before!’ messages, please, lest I
be forced to retort with ‘er yeah, but I won’t, will I?’) Thus, where once I
was scrapping to stay alive in order to have a long future, now I’m scrapping to
stay alive in order to have an immediate future – and, daft as it might seem, a
past. Previously I wondered what I was going to do, now I’m wondering what I’m going to have done. And right now, that’s learning to be content with being
remembered as ‘the one who wrote about cancer’. If indeed, it’s not cocky to
assume that I’ll be remembered at all.

But back to the immediate reality.
The time between my last post and this has seen an often frightening schedule
of scans and tests and consultations with all manner of different specialists
(oncologists, secondary breast cancer nurses, pain consultants, palliative experts,
relaxation therapists, you name it) all designed to keep my pain – AKA, the
stuff of cruciatus curses – to a level which we’ll be able to manage
indefinitely. My course of treatment has since been decided as well, and I am
hereby on a three-weekly cycle of chemotherapy designed to keep my cancer at
bay, which I’m taking in tablet form (two weeks on, one week off) and which
will, I promise you, be nothing like that which I experienced for my primary
cancer. As well as that, I’m having a ‘bone juice’ called pamidronate aimed at
keeping my bones as strong as possible, administered by IV drip every third
Wednesday in the Royal Marsden’s day unit, along with continued morphine and
calcium and various other pain killers and gut-protectors and shiz. These
things will, as far as anyone is able to say at present, continue forever. To
which, of course, Peter and I had to ask the most difficult of questions: ‘what
are we to assume by “forever”?’

I’ll preface what comes next with
there being no hard-and-fast rules where life expectancy is concerned, and
there being no way to predict what might happen in the meantime… but of course
you’re not listening to that, are you? So instead I’ll tell you exactly what we
were told: that an average prognosis of someone in my position is around the
four-and-a-half-year mark. I’ll also tell you that fronting up to my diagnosis
in that way (and when I say ‘me’ I of course mean Pete, Mum, Dad, Jamie, Leanne…)
hurt us all like hell and that I
therefore simply cannot allow us to do that any more. We’re not going to think
of it like that. AND NEITHER ARE YOU. We’re just going to carry on as normal,
aren’t we, blogging and piss-taking and shopping and holiday-planning and
telly-watching and singing and snoring and laughing and loving and being as
daft as we are every other normal day. AREN’T WE? Good.

Which brings me, quite neatly,
onto my second point, about the ‘living well’ stuff. Because, in first
wondering why the morphine-dream Jack Black asked me along to his ‘writing
collaborative’, and then in wondering why he agreed with Kate Copstick’s
realisation that I’d be responsible for the ‘Great New Thing’, whatever it may
be, I can only see one answer. Because I’m the right girl for the role.

See, maybe the Great New Thing
isn’t a business or a movie or a book or anything like that: maybe the Great
New Thing is, quite simply, the process of looking at your life and realising,
with enormous gratitude and stratospheric jamminess, that there’s absolutely
nothing you’d change about it – not the way you’ve done it so far; not the way
it’s going to be lived from now on; not even the legacy you’ll leave behind. So
maybe I’m the girl for the job because I just don’t need the advice of Hollywood
writers nor worldwide super-achievers nor multi-millionaires nor bolshy comedy
critics. Because, when it comes to that magical business of How To Live, by ’eck, I challenge anyone to do it better than I have.

30 comments:

And there you go and make me cry again! I don't want to talk about remembering you but rather about "seeing" you right now and the inspiration you are to me and probably so many other people reading this blog. Always have been inspirational, always will be! You rock! And you are the perfect girl for the New Great Thing: Showing us how to live a wonderful life! *hugs*

What a fantastic attitude Lisa. I don't really know what else to say, other than I had morphine recently after my reconstruction surgery and was about to ask my nurse if the machine beeped again should I send Twist (my cat!) to let her know! Crazy stuff!

You Go Lisa. Learning to live with what you have and getting on with it is a big lightbulb moment. One of my BF's husband had cancer for 9 years and was terminal for 5 of them. Once they accepted that he wouldn't be cured, they got on with the business of living, and they made the most out of his last 5 years. Truly inspirational. Not easy, but truly beautiful.

Just having a little weep for a second. it's nothing to do with what you just wrote, I swear, I just er, was thinking about something else. Promise. ( *sadface* )

I know that I don't have the power to make you well (man, that'd be so awesome. I'd be the best X Man ever...) but I hope I can help you to live well. So if there's anything you want to do that I can help you achieve you just holler, kiddo. So long as it doesn't involve wasps, heights or being in the dark because those things make me piss my pants.*

Do you know what Mrs L. I've never left a comment on your blog before today. Nope, not a dicky bird in all the years you've been blogging your ass off. It's not because I don't care, it's not because I don't read it, because I do. I've read every single one, and the book, twice. It's because I'm shy, I know that's hard to believe, loud-mouthed me confessing to shyness. It's just that apart from all the other things you are brilliant at, your writing is AMAZING. I just always thought if I tried to put into words how your writing and your story makes me feel they would just look insignificant and betray the HUGE depth of feeling I have for you, your words and your story. See, I'm not really doing a great job of this at all. What I'm trying to say is that Ive and I love you. We're not going to stop living our lives alongside yours, we'll be there for Glasto and Fireworks and BBQ's and fancy dress and getting drunk and whatever else helps you and P eek out every last drop of life. We'll be there for the shit stuff too but for now it's a question of Keep Calm and Carry On.... xxx

I LOVE YOU LISA! My son's girlfriend just found out yesterday that she has a recurrance of Triple Negative BC. Biopsies yesteday will know more later this week. She hasn't been in remission but for a month or so. I bought her your book because you are such an inspiration. Lots can happen in 4-5 years in the cancer arena looking for cures. I will stay positive in hoping for a cure for you both. You are one of the most amazing women I know although we have never met I feel like I know you so well. hugs and kisses!

I am just coming to the end of my treatment for primary BC, which has followed a very similar journey to yourself. I loved your book, and follow your blogs. You made me realise that life is there for living and we need to enjoy every day. You are "the girl for the job", and you know what, so am I!

I was 'introduced' to you by Stephen Fry some years back when he tweeted about your book. Being the 'mighty Fry' his word is taken as gospel, so I bought and read your book. Since then I have followed your blog - sometimes in a rather hap-hazard fashion. In all that time I have thought of you as a far and distant friend that I have kept in touch with. I just want you to know I'm here - another anonymous face in your life, that sits back routing for you and wishes the bullshit hadn't become so regular in your life.

I cannot begin to express how amazing I think you are. You write so well about so much and manage to convey your feelings so effectively that we, all those 'anonymous faces' out there, feel we know you personally - what a gift! I confess to bursting into tears at my office desk on reading both your last two posts, not just because what's happening to you is so damned UNFAIR, but because you really do live and love to the full, adore your Peter and your brother and his wife and your parents and are just a completely inspirational person, with or without cancer. You don't need to give a thought to your legacy - you've already reached out, helped and inspired so many people, ill and well, happy and sad, with your extraordinary gift and you are not defined by the Bullshit but by the person you are and the way you write. There are many things I envy about you, believe it or not. Sending you so much cyber-support and love as you find a way of living with this latest news as we all know you surely will. So sort out your medication, go shopping and get on with planning the next holiday! xx

Your posts and the comments that follow need facebook stylee like buttons! I too have read the book and every blog but not commented...Just wanted to say that if I ever have to face anything you have I hope I can do it with the same attitude, but I guess we all just get on with what's thrown at us. Love to all xxx

I wont remember you as 'the one who wrote about cancer'. I will remember you for far more than that. For being beautiful, silly, straight talking, arse kicking, life affirming, being totally in love, showing me how things are done, making me snort tea out my nose, for always looking completely stylish and making me look like a Primark poster girl. For being totally into cricket, for loving Dave Grohl, for being St Pepper crazy, for you and P showing us how love should really be done. For so so many things - oh, a little of remembering about the book about cancer, the book that helped so many women on the same journey as you. The book that made me even more grateful to have you as my friend.

And anyway. I plan to make a lot more memories and have a lot more giggles before I even have to think about remembering you. Boo to remembering, IT CAN TALK TO THE HAND FOR NOW.

Hi Lisa. I love the way you blog. I have just taken myself of the chemo you are about to start, what was supposed to be for the rest of my life, I found when mixed with the other drug they gave me as I am also her2 positive doesn't really like me at all, so instead of being a dithering uncontrollable zombie like mess. I've stopped the treatment. It sounds from you talking that I'm on my last year of life after battling with my squatters now for 4 and half years. Please don't listen to the statistic as I have spoken to quite a few women who are in fact still here and living a good enjoyable life nearly 20 yrs after there diagnosis of bone Metz, and of course I plan to be one of those women and am planning the biggest 80th birthday party ever... I used to be like yourself and on the enormous amounts of morphine, I can't remember the day when it happened but it's very very rare that I take medication now. Maybe it was after I'd had the opp on my spine to remove parts and make me bionic or whether it was after the bone strengthener started to do it's job.

I feel where your coming from and totaly understand. Your a strong woman and even though you may not think it at times, you truly are. If anyone can beat this bast**d, you can.

I'd put off reading this particular post for a couple of days and now I know why... How do you manage to take something so crappy and turn it around into something so positive? You turn my thinking around and give me a kick up the arse that I need. I am so proud of you! xxxx

It is fair to say that you've made the best of the hand you have been dealt. All the things that you have had control of – your career, your life experiences – you have pushed and maximised to the full. Nobody could ever accuse you of not having LIVED, damn it.

And as for the sheer random chance of genetic misfortune, well, what can I say? You couldn't help being born a Derby County supporter, could you?

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Welcome to the website of me, Lisa Lynch: author, editor, blogger, wife, Ram, telly-addict, doofus, cancer bitch (but not, I hasten to add, cancer's bitch). The latter of those things is what initially got me blogging, swearing my way through The Bullshit following a pesky breast-cancer diagnosis at 28. Some three years down the line – with newly grown hair, a newly published book and a newly perky rack – I dared to assume that I'd seen the worst… only for the c-word to crop up once more: this time in my bones and brain, and this time incurable.

And so, from being a blog intended to chart my evolution from 'the girl who has cancer' to merely 'the girl', it seems we're back to the former. (If, indeed, it's still acceptable to even call yourself a girl in your thirties. Which, let's be honest, it probably isn't.) But before you write this off as Just Another Moany Health Blog, stick with me. Because cancer or no cancer, curable or incurable… I'll still tell it the way I see it. The universe might be in control of what’s going on in my body, but I'm in control of what’s going on in my blog. Which is why I hope you'll continue to join me as I write my way through my experiences. You see, this isn't a story about some poor, unlucky lass being taken down by cancer; it's simply a story about the extraordinary life of an ordinary girl woman.

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